


Arms Around My Waist (Tell Me That You Love Me)

by LilLayneeLoo



Category: Batman: The Animated Series, Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons), Justice League - All Media Types, Superman: The Animated Series
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Major Character Undeath, Married Couple, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:34:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27165973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilLayneeLoo/pseuds/LilLayneeLoo
Summary: Clark is killed by Toyman, and Bruce has resigned to believe that his husband is gone. Until he isn't.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 11
Kudos: 141





	Arms Around My Waist (Tell Me That You Love Me)

**Author's Note:**

> this is based on the Justice League Animated Series episode 'Hereafter,' but how it might have gone if Bats and Supes were married (as I wholeheartedly believe they should be)

The wheat was tall around him as he walked toward the house. Martha and Jonathan stepped carefully in front of him, aware of not only their own fragility, but his as well.

Alfred was behind the three of them, his head bowed forward as they proceeded solemnly away from the headstone; from Clark, for the final time.

He had barely even been aware of what the pastor had said while they had lowered the empty casket into the ground. It  _ killed _ him to know that only a few of them knew the truth; that some people at the funeral were here for Clark, not knowing the  _ full extent  _ of his inherent goodness.

Nobody knew the man’s exceptionality quite like he did.

He couldn’t name who else was walking behind them by the time they were halfway up the path. He could only assume that it was many people. Clark had touched many lives, even without the cape.

Diana and Lois Lane walked behind Alfred, followed closely by John and Shayera hand-in-hand. Wally was present as well, tears streaming down his face as he forced himself forward. Perry White, Jimmy Olsen, even Cat Grant had come from the Planet, and a martian disguised as a nameless man followed them all. 

The house was cold; it hit him like a wall as he stepped through the front door, barely turning back, afraid to show his face to the people disappearing into their cars.

Clark had touched many lives, yes, but none more so than Bruce’s.

He stood in the hallway between the Kent’s entryway and the stairs, unsure of where to go. Routinely, he and Clark had entered and ventured to the sitting room, settling down in front of whatever sport was on the television and chatting nonchalantly with Jonathan.

The thought of returning to that couch, where he had been tucked securely under Clark’s arm too many times to count, knowing that it would never again be so comfortable made Bruce feel unsteady. Dizzy. Sick.

He vaguely registered when Martha and Jonathan came through the front door. Knowing they had lost their son as much as he had lost his love made him want to turn around, push through the pain, and comfort them. 

But he couldn’t bring himself to do it, and Martha’s hand on his shoulder only made him feel worse for it. He fiddled with the ring on his left hand, staring at the staircase.

“Go,” Martha whispered, gesturing toward the stairs. “Go up there. Be with him.”

Bruce turned toward her, taking in her solemn swollen eyes. Jonathan’s matched behind his glasses, and he nodded toward the stairs as Martha had.

Bruce nodded back, swallowing thickly as he stepped up. He heard Martha’s shaky sob behind him, and the rustle of fabric as Jonathan undoubtedly comforted her.

Clark would never comfort him like that again; Bruce wasn’t sure he’d let  _ anyone _ comfort him like that again.

He reached the top of the stairs, and the floor creaked under his feet as he stepped to the second door. He turned the corner through the door, and his breath hitched in his throat.

Clark’s room embodied him, and even though Bruce had seen it before, he had never had reason for it to hit him as hard as it did today. 

The plaid bedspread that matched his atrocious flannels. The models on the book shelf in the far corner, surrounded by classical literature and textbooks from MetU. His college varsity jacket slung over the closet door,  _ Kent _ stitched neatly on the sleeve. The photos of his Ma and Pa, Kara, and he and Lois that adorned the top of his dresser. The framed photo of the two of them, taken on their wedding day and situated lovingly on the bedside table. One of his notebooks--the little black ones, that he had always carried with him in case he needed to jot down important information. And next to it, an early model of a batarang; specifically, the one Bruce had thrown the first time Clark crossed into his city.

Bruce picked up the sharp metal and sank down onto the mattress, running his fingers over the dull edge of the blade and staring at its slight discoloration. He sighed softly, and reached for the picture then. He ignored his own face, and focused on Clark’s.

He took it in.

The crinkles beside his eyes when he  _ truly _ smiled, that Clark fretted made him look old. His ridiculous glasses, that somehow concealed the extent of his goodness from the rest of the world. The soft curls in his hair, that he could never really control and had become Superman’s staple.

Bruce’s fingers caressed Clark’s face in the photo, tracing his lips and hairline, and swiping his thumb across his cheek as he had done in reality many times.

He pressed the photo and the batarang to his chest and curled around them, laying back onto the bed and pressing his nose into the plaid fabric. He inhaled and choked again. The bed smelled, inarguably, exactly like Clark.

He sobbed, allowing himself to cry and mourn for the first time since the death of his parents. His shoulders and chest shook, his left hand gripping the bedspread and twisting it as tightly as the knot in his stomach.

He wanted to scream. To yell. To find and beat the shit out of the deranged lunatic who had extinguished the life of his husband as easily and as quickly as one might extinguish the flame of a candle; who in a single blast, ripped away from Bruce the one man who had made him feel whole again.  _ Loved _ again.

There was a soft knock on the door a little while later, and Alfred gently pushed it open. His brow was already furrowed, but Bruce watched the old butler’s eyes fill with unshed tears at the sight of him curled up the way he was.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred sighed, swallowing thickly. “We should be returning to Gotham, unless you wish to stay the night in Kansas.”

Bruce shook his head, clutching the frame tighter to his body and inhaling Clark’s scent one more time before sitting up. Alfred crossed the room, reached up to the closet door, and retrieved Clark’s varsity jacket.

“I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. Kent will not mind,” he whispered softly as he draped the jacket over Bruce’s shoulders. Bruce instinctually pressed his face to his shoulder, feeling the cool fabric of the jacket against his cheek. His tears continued to fall, darkening the fabric of the jacket.

It smelled like him as much as the bed had, and he was grateful to be able to keep a piece of Clark with him.

He fell asleep on the plane with it draped over his chest, the photo and batarang still clutched in his arms.

\-----

Everyone told him it would get easier. He didn’t know which he had heard more---apologies or reassurances--but he knew he was done with both.

It wasn’t getting easier. Nothing was easy, and nobody,  _ nobody _ , was as sorry for Clark’s death as Bruce was.

He only saw Alfred, and occasionally his boys. He took calls from Martha and Jonathan, but no one else. He didn’t patrol; Dick, Barbara, and Tim were more than capable of handling the city for a little while, until the so-called ‘easier’ time came.

Days turned to weeks, turned to months. Bruce knew it was only a matter of time before the league came calling, so he didn’t put up too much of a fight when Diana opened the study door.

“Bruce,” she said. “You need to come downstairs. There’s something you need to know right away, and a few things we need to explain.”

Bruce looked over to her; took in her neutral expression and scoffed. He could hear chatter downstairs, and found himself disgusted by its vaguely cheerful tone.

How could they be happy,  _ whole _ , without Clark?

“I don’t want to hear it, Diana,” he said. “I can’t… I can’t handle the League right now. I can’t be who you need me to be...not without…”

He still couldn’t really bring himself to say Clark’s name, so just sighed instead.

“He balanced me. He taught me...that justice doesn’t always have to come from the darkness. He was the only one who could put me in my place...So...I can’t be Batman, Diana, when there is _no_ _Superman._ ”

His eyes stung with unshed tears.  _ Easier my ass. _

“Bruce, you don’t understand,” she continued. “If you just come downstairs, I promise you-”

“You know,” Bruce cut her off again, rising to his feet and walking to the window. 

He wasn’t sure where the sudden urge to talk about things came from, but Diana was here, so she would just have to witness him let go a little.

“I used to tell him I hated when he'd drop in on me, unannounced while I was on patrol. He'd land a few feet behind me and try his best to sneak up, but I always knew he was there.”

Diana looked solemn, and Bruce swallowed back the tears still forming in his eyes, looking down at the floor to avoid her gaze.

“Then he'd wrap his arms around my waist, kiss my neck, and whisper how much he loved me… without fail, every time. I always told him no. I’d say it jokingly, but I meant it. Without fail, I’d tell him to fuck off, to leave me alone on patrol and to just wait for me at home.”

Diana opened her mouth to talk again, but Bruce turned his back to her, and stared out at the rain.

“But God, Diana, if I had known…” He shook his head. “What I would give to hear his boots on the roof one more time; for one more of his backwards hugs, one more kiss… one more ‘I love you, B.’”

He sniffled again, pressing his forehead against the glass and ignoring the rustling behind him.

“I have a single rule, but for that…for just one more  _ moment _ with...with him… I think I’d throw it all away."

Gentle hands caressed his sides, then wrapped him in a secure hold. Bruce felt the delicate press of lips against his neck.

"I love you, B. Don’t throw anything away just yet.”

Bruce turned rapidly, lingering chills on his spine from the care in the touch and kiss. It was familiar. It was  _ Clark _ .

His costume was torn and his hair was a scraggly mess, but  _ he was there _ . Bruce heard the door click as Diana slipped out of the room, but could not tear his gaze away from Clark’s clear blue eyes.

“I’m here,” he said, quietly. “Toyman’s blast sent me forward in time, it didn’t kill me.”

Bruce felt frozen to the spot, stray tears cascading down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” Clark finished. He lifted his arms and took a small step forward. Bruce stumbled forward, tripping more than walking into Clark’s arms. Clark carried his weight gently into a kneeling position, wrapping him tightly in his embrace and pressing his head to his neck.

“I’m so sorry, Bruce,” he said again. “I came back as fast as I could.”

“Stop,” Bruce cried quietly, whispering into his shoulder.. “I don’t care, I don’t care. I love you, Clark. I love you so fucking much.”

“I love you too,” Clark returned, tightening his grip on his husband. “Rao, I love you more than you could ever even know.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Feedback is appreciated, as always.
> 
> Thanks for stopping by!
> 
> -Laynee


End file.
